The Proposal
by samvimes
Summary: Sam Vimes really isn't very good at being romantic...


Good afternoon, gentle readers.   
  
Once again I present to you a small fluffy piece of writing in the   
fashion of all my other pieces of writing. No spoilers, just the   
result of my continued curiousity about the private life of Samuel   
Vimes.  
  
Enjoy :)  
  
  
The Proposal  
Set between Guards! Guards! and Men At Arms  
  
  
...she had style and money and common-sense and self-assurance and all   
the things that he didn't, and she had opened her heart, and if you let   
her she could engulf you; the woman was a city. And eventually, under   
siege, you did what Ankh-Morpork had always done -- unbar the gates,   
let the conquerors in, and make them your own.  
--Guards! Guards!  
  
  
The New House at Pseudopolis Yard was, in fact, quite old; it had been   
in the Ramkin family for generations, and was originally meant as a   
town house, though now the mansion on Scoone Avenue served that purpose   
rather more grandly. Besides, the Scoone Avenue house had grounds big   
enough to hold a dragon-barn as well, which is why Lady Sybil Ramkin   
still lived there, and not somewhere out in the country*.   
  
Pseudopolis Yard had stood empty for more years than you could count,   
but it was still the New House to the Night Watch. The Old Watch House,   
on Treacle Mine Road, had been torched to the ground by an   
inconsiderate dragon, after all.   
  
It hadn't taken long for the Night Watch to make Pseudopolis Yard their   
own. It was barracks, dining hall, training yard, and headquarters, all   
in one. Captain Vimes even had an office, though the only difference   
between 'office' and 'bedroom' in his mind was that one had paperwork   
in it, and the other had sheets; Vimes was not a man who spent much  
time indoors. The rugs had been pulled up, the paintings taken down and   
stored in the Ramkin Mansion's attic, the posh furniture had been   
replaced by desks and chairs, the ballroom chandelier wrapped in cloth   
and carted to the Opera House, to which it had been donated.  
  
It's so /empty/, Vimes sometimes thought, as his bootheels echoed on   
the wooden floors. It wasn't as though there were many of them in the   
Night Watch. Lady Sybil employed more people as servants up at Scoone   
Avenue. Just him, Colon, Nobby, and Carrot -- although Carrot had been   
making noises about them recruiting a few more lads.   
  
So had the Patrician. Vimes left them to it. This morning, he had more   
pressing matters to attend to.  
  
"Good day, sir!" Lance-Corporal Carrot Ironfoundersson said cheerfully.   
He was polishing Vimes' spare breastplate, the one with fewer dings and   
dents in it; nobody polished armour like Carrot. Vimes hadn't asked him   
to, but you rarely had to ask Carrot to do anything. Sometimes you had   
to ask him to stop. "Have a quiet shift?"  
  
It was so early in the morning that the shine was barely worn from   
'late at night'. The market stalls were opening soon. Most sensible   
people were still asleep, but for the Night Watch, it was shift's end   
-- time to go home, have a hot meal, and get to bed. Fred Colon had a   
little row-house and a wife who cooked for him, but the other three had   
rooms in Pseudopolis Yard, and shifted for themselves if they wanted   
anything hot, or fitting the description 'meal'.   
  
"Not too bad," he said, hanging up his coat. "Yard quiet?"  
  
"Yessir. Hallo Nobby!" Carrot called, as Nobby Nobbs sidled in, smoking   
one of his horrible dog-end cigarettes and carrying the remains of a   
curry.   
  
"Mornin'," Nobby grunted. "Any cocoa on?"  
  
"Fresh pot, on the stove," Carrot said, nodding towards the small stove   
they'd installed in the front office of the Yard.   
  
"Got what you arsked for, Captain," Nobby said, pouring himself a cup   
of cocoa. "Pawnshop on Peach Pie street. Didn't nick it and pocket the   
money you give me, neither, just like you said." He held out a small,   
remarkably clean white stone box. Vimes took it, opened it, cleaned out   
a little dust with his finger, and shut it again.   
  
"It'll do fine. Thanks, Nobby," he said absently. "Carrot, do stop   
polishing, would you?"  
  
Carrot looked mildly hurt. "I just thought it'd be nice," he said.   
"Never know when you want a suit with a bit of a polish on it, sir."  
  
Nobby wagged his eyebrows. "The ladies do like a man in a neat uniform,   
sir," he added loyally. "Lady Sybil's always sayin'."  
  
"I suppose you put him up to it," Vimes said gloomily.  
  
"Pr'aps I did, sir."  
  
"All right." Vimes unbuckled his breastplate. "Let's have it, then."  
  
Carrot helped him into the shining armour, and he had to stop the lad   
dusting off his shoulders.   
  
"It's chain-mail, Carrot, it doesn't show lint."  
  
"You never know, sir," Carrot answered, implacably.  
  
"What's all the to-do?" Sergeant Colon asked, as he came in out of the   
early morning chill. "Ah, that's a well-shined breastplate, Carrot," he   
said approvingly. "Must look smart on parade, mustn't we, Captain?"  
  
"It's not parade, it's /breakfast/," Vimes protested. The others   
exchanged a conspiratorial look. "I've had breakfast with Lady Sybil   
for months."  
  
"Oh aye, but you ain't never had /that/ in your pocket afore, have you?   
Begging your pardon, Captain," Colon said. Nobby sniggered.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," Vimes answered, with as much   
dignity as a man in a shiny breastplate can muster.   
  
"Come on, Captain Vimes, give us a look," Carrot asked. He was a   
well-grown lad, but he was still a lad, and he sounded like a   
ten-year-old on Hogswatchnight.  
  
"Some men manage this without any assistance, you know," Vimes fought,   
but weakly. "Colon didn't have an audience, I know that."  
  
"Nah, but I was just a lowly constable," Colon said, grinning. "I   
wasn't /Captain/."  
  
"Fred -- "  
  
"Just a look, Cap'n, it won't hurt it none," Nobby urged.   
  
"Bunch of old ladies, you are," Vimes said, reaching into his pocket.   
"Never should have told you, Fred."  
  
"Prob'ly not," Fred agreed, comfortably.  
  
It was in a greasy, much-faded velvet box. It didn't burn with the fire   
of a thousand suns. It didn't even glitter. It gleamed, barely. They   
gave him a dim look.  
  
"It's all I could afford," Vimes protested. "It's not as though I'm a   
rich man, you know."  
  
"Not yet," Colon said slyly.  
  
"I did get a nice box. Had Nobby find me one."  
  
"Which I in no way nicked," Nobby said, urgently. "Fairly bought and   
paid for."  
  
"All right, I believe you. Under the circumstances, I won't ask if   
there was any change." He transferred It to the white stone box, and   
put it in his coat pocket, tossing the grubby velvet one in a trash   
bin. "Now, do I pass inspection?"  
  
He had meant it as a joke, and felt suddenly exposed in front of the   
laserlike looks of Carrot, Nobby, and Colon. Finally, they glanced at   
each other, and nodded. A Watchman was a Watchman, and if you minded   
that he had a dented breastplate or worn-out boots, you oughtn't to be   
hanging about in the first place.  
  
"Buy her an apple!" Carrot called, as Vimes stalked out. "They're good   
for you! Lady Sybil likes apples!"  
  
"An' don't smoke!" Colon added.  
  
"An' don't do anything stupid!" Nobby said, but he waited until the   
door had closed. The other two glared at him. "Well, she might take the   
Yard back," he said defensively.  
  
***  
  
Outside, it was crisp and cool in the late spring morning. Everything   
was simpler outside, even during the daylight hours, which were usually   
something Vimes shut his curtains against so that he could sleep. The   
streets were still quiet, and -- you could almost believe -- peaceful.  
  
Lady Sybil must be at least a little fond of him, he thought, to get up   
at six in the morning on a cold day and venture out of the old house on   
Scoone Avenue. She'd started coming to meet him for breakfast when it   
became obvious that he worked during her dinnertime, most days, and it   
was a pleasant little habit they had now. She met him in Sator Square,   
a nice walk from the Watch House, and he listened to the news of her   
world** as they ate. He'd had to save her a few times from Dibbler's   
treacherous breakfast sandwiches, because Lady Sybil was a trusting   
soul, but then she'd often saved him from an early-morning drink when   
he was in a foul mood. She would talk at him until he couldn't help   
coming round to her point of view, which was similar to Carrot's --   
there wasn't anyone you couldn't get along with, if you were a good   
chap and tried hard. It didn't last forever, but it lasted through   
breakfast, and that was enough.   
  
What he wanted, he'd discovered, was for breakfast to last longer. Or   
at least, for it to be a sure thing***.   
  
"Morning, Sybil," he said, stepping into the square and tipping his   
helmet. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting."  
  
"Good morning, Sam," she answered. "I just arrived myself. Shall we?"  
  
He nodded, curtly, and fell into step beside her.   
  
"I thought we might try that little cafe, the one that just opened off   
the Square," Sybil began. "I hear they do an excellent Genuan   
Surprise."  
  
"Don't know that I want to be surprised by anything they've got in   
Genua," he said. She smiled. "Do they do egg and chips?"  
  
"I imagine they could have a try. You're an easy man to cook for, Sam."  
  
Egg and chips was not how he had wanted to steer the conversation, but   
he hadn't thought about that bit up until now. /Speaking of surprise,   
Sybil -- / or possibly, /Look here, I don't take up much space and -- /  
  
"The cafe sounds fine," he said.   
  
"How was your evening? Not too damp?" she asked. She always called it   
his evening -- not shift, or work, or anything so common. Sybil had   
class, loads of it, and grace.   
  
/It'd never work,/ he thought despairingly. /It really never would.   
Daft to even try./  
  
"Sam?"  
  
He glanced at her. "Oh, right. Yes, fine. Not much damp. Listen,   
Sybil..."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I was wondering..." he trailed off as they passed a fruit merchant,   
and Carrot's words came back to haunt him. "Here, these look fresh,   
would you like an apple?" he blithered. She stopped, perplexed.  
  
"Yes, I suppose..." she said, slowly. He tossed a coin to the merchant,   
and picked up one of the man's spotty, elderly fruits, which he shined   
on his sleeve before handing it to her.  
  
Class and grace. And Sam Vimes had neither. If it was possible to   
actively lack class and grace, he would.  
  
"Are you sure you're all right, Sam?" she asked. "You seem a bit   
distracted today."  
  
"Just thinking things over," he answered.  
  
What have you got, Sam? An empty rank, boots with holes in, a bare   
bedroom in the Watch House and a few barely clung-to convictions. A   
breastplate with dents -- shiny enough, true, but you didn't even do   
that, did you? An attitude even cynics think is a bit on the depressive   
side, a badge, and a bad shave. Why would Sybil Ramkin give you a   
second look?  
  
On the other hand, a quiet, Carrot-like voice said, why's she up at six   
in the morning to have breakfast with you? Eh?   
  
A man's got to have something to offer a lady like her.  
  
You've got a badge. You're a Captain. When was the last time a woman   
smiled at your jokes? When was the last time you made a joke?  
  
You /are/ a joke, if you think this is going to work.  
  
There was a scream, up ahead. Sam stopped, laying a hand on Sybil's   
arm. Another scream. "Unlicensed Thief! Stop 'im!"  
  
"Stay here," he said sharply, and took off running, shedding his heavy   
coat as he went. It didn't take long to come around the side of a   
fishmonger's stall and see the wailing woman, and a man who was   
apparently in training for the hundred-meter-dash-with-handbag. As he   
tore after the purse-snatcher, he thought about Leggy Gaskin, who had   
run after a thief and gotten a one-way trip to Small Gods cemetery for   
his troubles. /You could be a fast copper, or you could be an old   
copper, but you couldn't be -- /  
  
Blow that for a game of soldiers. You couldn't commit a crime under the   
nose of a Watch Captain, Night or otherwise, and expect to get away   
with it. He nipped down an alleyway that would cut diagonally out   
towards the street the thief had just turned down, and arrived in time   
to lay an angry, breathless punch on the running man.   
  
"Let's see your guild license," he demanded, as the thief fell on the   
cobbles, nose bleeding. "Eh? Haven't got one? I expect you left it in   
your other pants. No, you don't," he advised, as the man tried to crawl   
away. He grabbed him by the collar, flipped him over, and glared down   
at him. Lifted one leg to put the boot in --   
  
And saw Sybil come puffing around the corner, the thief's victim in   
tow. She has a good turn of speed, he thought. He lowered his foot,   
slightly ashamed.   
  
The purse's owner, however, had no such compunctions. She had no sooner   
snatched her purse back from the thief, than she was laying into him   
with it. To judge from the thuds it made, she must be carrying lead   
hankies. Two officers from the Day Watch were trotting up, too, so he   
let them go to the trouble of pulling the pair apart and sorting things   
out.  
  
"That was jolly brave of you," Sybil said, handing his coat back to him   
as they walked down the alley. Something jangled in a pocket. "Sorry,   
you dropped it -- I think something broke..."  
  
He stopped and reached into his pocket, bringing out a handful of white   
stone slivers.  
  
"What was it -- " she started to ask, then stopped, suddenly. Along   
with the slivers, he held a (mercifully unblemished) gold ring, with a   
small, a very small, rather blueish diamond set in it.   
  
"Oh bugger," he said, as her eyes widened. "I didn't mean to -- I mean,   
I wanted it to be more...er, less -- not in an alley, for starters -- "  
  
"It's perfect," she said. His brow knit.  
  
"It is? I mean..." he trailed off, haplessly. "I didn't know how to   
ask...but...would you like to? Erm, marry me. That is." She was staring   
at him. He brushed the chips of stone off his palm. "It's all right if   
you'd rather not -- "  
  
Sybil began to laugh. It started out very quietly, then slowly grew in   
volume until he began to worry. "Of course I will, you silly man," she   
gasped. "If I'd...rather...not..." she repeated, going off into gales   
of laughter again. "Would I like to..."  
  
"Here, are you all right?" he asked. Perhaps the shock had put her over   
the edge.  
  
She nodded, wordlessly, still giggling. Then she managed to get herself   
under control, leaned over, and kissed him. Engulfed him, really. Sybil   
didn't do anything by halves.  
  
Sam Vimes was not a man accustomed to being kissed, especially in   
public, even if 'public' was only a dim, uninhabited alley. When the   
surprise wore off, he saw she'd put the ring on her finger, and was   
admiring it.   
  
"It isn't much -- " he began.   
  
"Nonsense. It's lovely. I've always liked blue," she said.  
  
Class and grace by the bucketload, Sam thought, as they picked their   
way back to Sator Square. Class and grace and a heart big enough for   
the whole world.   
  
Including me.  
  
END  
  
  
* Another reason was Captain Samuel Vimes, but we'll get there in a few   
paragraphs.  
  
** Mainly dull society gatherings, spiced up by Sybil's true passion,   
dragon-breeding. Since she bred swamp-dragons, who often exploded for   
no apparent reason, it could be quite exciting. It was a rare breakfast   
that didn't include both the word 'orchestra' and the phrase 'blast   
radius'.   
  
*** Which some people would call a pretty good definition of love, if   
not burdened with Vimes' cynical view of the softer emotions. 


End file.
